


Sick Day

by PUNIFA



Series: Bits and Bobs [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, PNEUMONIAAAA, REALLY NOT TERRIFICALLY SHIPPY, YOUNGER HOLMES BROS, holmescest, sherlock/mycroft - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PUNIFA/pseuds/PUNIFA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft takes a sick day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Day

Mycroft should have been in his office.

He’d only gotten one to call  _his_ __a month ago.

But pneumonia wasn’t something you could bring into the Ministry of Defence. Mycroft understood this fully.

It didn’t stop him from sulking. He had every right to sulk after being assigned at the least a week’s rest by his physician, along with vile, viscous syrup to temper his coughs enough that he wouldn’t risk breaking a rib. 

But fever made it awfully hard for him to remember to sulk. It also made the letters on his papers dribble down the pages and onto the duvet. Much to his dismay his eyes closed. His thick breathing slowed. A folder of rather important files slid to the floor.

Through the fog between his ears he vaugely heard a scraping at the door, one he was so used to that he could assign it to its source even in his current state. “I’m not equipped to deal with you right now,” he slurred sluggishy. Sherlock closed the door and invited himself into the chair next to the bed. He could hear his brother retrieving the folder from the floor.

“I think you’re hardly equipped to deal with anything.” There was the slide of paper against fabric - Sherlock had slipped the files into his coat.

“Put those back.”

“They’ll hand them off to another grunt.”

“ _Sherlock_.” If his voice hadn’t been clogged it might have been intimidating. Mycroft forced his eyes open and struggled up onto his feeble elbows. Sherlock shifted forward in his seat and frowned.

“Don’t.” Chilled fingers slid up Mycroft’s arms, pressing him easily back against the mattress, and his mouth dropped open on a soft, relieved groan. Sherlock hadn’t stopped to warm up before coming into the room. It was as close as the boy would come to bringing a cool compress – he released Mycroft’s arms and drifted the pads of his fingers over his heated forehead. His eyes fluttered shut again.

Sherlock’s hands eventually grew warm, and he slid them round Mycroft’s shoulders, easing him up so that he could press the glass of tepid water that had been set on the table to his cracked lips.

“What’s the point of this?” Mycroft asked somewhat less raspily once the empty glass thumped back down onto its coaster.

“Any breach in security is bad. I don’t want to prolong your illness and put myself at stake.”

There was a dull crack, and then something miraculously icy pressed against his brow. Sherlock had bothered with a compress, after all.


End file.
